Speaking of narcissists, if we were all as temperamental and high-strung as the smartphones we ferry around, the world would be unbearable. Nothing would get accomplished. Ever. Our lone activities would be clamoring for attention and throwing tantrums: look at me, look at me, listen, pick me up, talk to me, watch this, yoohoo, ring, ring, look at me, dammit.
I don’t know about you, but I’m fed up with the constant demands.
Just the other day I skipped outside with a book and my cellphone, planning to indulge in a little summer bliss. I planted myself on a sunny bench, cranked up iTunes, leaned back, and tumbled headlong into Spoonbenders. I crave such moments. Gone are the days when I needed excitement and thrills and drama, I’m perfectly content with predictable. It’s comforting.
The weather alone would have been joyous enough; the book was simply icing on the cake. It swept me into another dimension altogether with a terrific soundtrack. I read page after page, enchanted by the story and the characters. The music created a nice atmosphere. Until it stopped abruptly and without warning, mid-note. What the Hell?
I picked up the phone. I looked at the screen. And lost all respect for my device right then and there. Seriously? It can’t cope with a little sunshine? What a flipping prima donna. You know, I’m a pretty sophisticated piece of technology in my own right — we all are — and I don’t shut down when I’m hot. No one does. Drop us like a bad habit, toss us in the tub, and we’ll carry on.
Not the smartphone. Oh, no. It lounges on its pedestal, the center of attention, and basks like royalty. Heck, I’m surprised it isn’t carted around on a pillow and attended by servants. The thing only has to peep or chirp and every head turns. We rush to gaze at it, find out what it wants, feverish to soothe its every whim.
Are you ready for the sick part? I want a gig like that.
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